


Five Holy Wounds

by FettsJetts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Atheism, Blood and Gore, Catholicism, Eventual Romance, F/M, Graphic Violence, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 05, Stigmata
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FettsJetts/pseuds/FettsJetts
Summary: Cella lived a quiet, un-bothered life for 26 years of her life. Then is all comes crashing down in a series of gruesome events that cause her own sanity to spiral out of control, and become life threatening to her and only her.Her only hope is the Winchester boys, and even they might not be able to save her from a fate that destiny has brought to her.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, I guess to give some background on why I'm putting this in Season 5, I'm not caught up, lol. I stopped watching right after Season 10 finished, and never really continued(which means I haven't seen Season 11 and beyond). My life got busy, I just went through a lot. This year, in honor of JDM returning for episode 300, my mom and I decided to re-watch SPN from the VERY beginning. As of now, we are halfway through Season 5. I loved researching religious happenings and crazy things that happened.
> 
> As well as one of my favorite movies being Stigmata with Patricia Arquette. As you'll notice, this is LOOSELY based off this. The biggest thing this story will have in common is that the main character is an Atheist, and thats about it. I got the idea from that movie, but that last time I saw it was like 6 years ago, so plot details are blurry. Its mainly just connected by the main theme, Stigmata.
> 
> Without further ado, here we go.

_It is I who am the light that presides over all. It is I who am the entirety: it is from me that the entirety goes. The Kingdom of God is within you and all about you. He is not in temples of wood and of stone. When I am gone, split a piece of wood and I am there, lift a stone and you will find me. Those who seek should not stop seeking until they find. When they find they will be disturbed, they will marvel, and will reign over all. And after they have reigned they will rest. Know what is in front of your face and what is hidden from you will be disclosed to you. For there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed. And there is nothing buried that will not be raised._

_Lucky is the lion that the human will eat, so that the lion becomes human. And foul is the human that the lion will eat, and the lion still will become human._

* * *

Religion was not a worry of Cella's.

Her father had been a devout man, Roman Catholic through and through. He made a pilgrimage once a year so that he may see the Vatican, and he dragged her mother with him. His father before him did the same, and his father before him. If there was a family that was more devout and honest and religious than her's, she had yet to see them. Her childhood home was nothing short of a church. The rosary that littered every surface of her house to be prayed upon. Every depiction their Lord and Savior graced, they possessed. The prayed before every meal, careful to thank their honest Lord for every good moment in their humble lives. Her father had been nothing short of a Saint. He had ingrained into her every gospel, every work of the bible, New Testament and Old. She attended mass every Sunday, and every Wednesday. She never wore a skirt above her knees, or a shirt with sleeves above her elbows. Her hair was prim, and proper. No makeup, and her curfew was 6pm. No friends, no phone.

She grew to resent her father. When both he and her mother died, she was a mere 3 months shy of her 18th birthday, she felt an odd sense of relief. She inherited her father's wealth, which came as no surprise. He wanted for nothing the Lord could not provide, which meant they lived humble lives with no luxury. She should have known that her father had a large sum of money.

She didn't feel an ounce of guilt when she loaded all religious artifacts into a dumpster a month after they were buried.

She inherited the house, and the 3 acres of land it rested on. While humble and barren, it was a sizable house, inherited from generations before. They had lived in New Shoreham, Rhode Island, where most of the houses where older than the state itself. Her childhood home was built in late 1600, but with constant renovations from her grandfather and father, it barely creaked. Her father treated the house better than her, and even better than his bible, a blaspheme if she had stated it aloud when he lived. When she inherited her money, she wanted to do something with her life. Her father had worked a job that didn't satisfy him (though nothing but the church would have anyway), and her mother hadn't been allowed to work. So, she bought a store, where she made her own soaps, tinctures, and other odds and ends. She knew it was foolish in a town on an Island where the only way to reach it was an hour long ferry from Charlestown, but she never got what she wanted as a child, so she did it. And damn her father if Heaven existed and he was watching. 

Cella wasn't religious. In fact, she regarded herself strongly as an Atheist, mainly due to her strict upbringing. While not having friends, she still seemed to know everyone in town, and she chalked that up to her having to attend church twice a week. Once her parents died, however, she never stepped foot on holy ground. Despite her vanish from the public eye (at least in worship terms), most of the towns people visited her store on a weekly basis. Most every got their bath soap from her, and even more came to her for salves and balms. Eventually, everything fell into a routine, and her father's religious and strong grip on most everything faded away.

++

_Ting TIng._

The bell above Cella's shop door chimed at her, signalling the arrival of a customer. She had been leaning against her counter, chin propped up on her arm, reading a book. At the sound of the door, she looks up, greeting a friendly and well known face. 

"Greta! What can I do ya for today?" Cella's voice was clear, and chipper. The older woman was a surrogate grandmother to her, especially after her parents passed away. She came in twice a week for a eucalyptus and tea tree rub that helped her back pain and occasional sciatica. The older woman, who was pushing 80 in the least, always gave her a kind smile. Every week or so, she'd bring Cella a homemade whoopie pie, and it always brought a happy twinkle to her eye to see Cella smile. 

"That lotion!" The woman, who was no more that 5 feet tall, demanded lightly with a smile. "You should sell beyond just this town, CeCe, dear! You'd make more money, and you could leave."

"And leave my best girl here all alone without her special lotion? I think not. What would you do with out me?" Cella dog ears the page in her book and slides it under the counter. She pulls out a transparent green tub and replaces the spot where the novel sat. "I always keep a tin back here for you, just in case I run out." They both knew that would never happen, but it showed Greta just how much the younger woman cared about her. Greta hobbles over to the counter, cash in hand. She slides it across the glass and waits patiently for Cella to input the sale into her cash register, and then slide back her change. "Besides, I'd miss your whoopie pies if I ever left. Wicked Whoopies just isn't the same as yours."

"Thats because they mass produce!" 

"You just said thats what I should do. Are you trying to sabotage me, Greta?"

"You caught me. Live in my attic and make that lotion the rest of your life, deary. It'll be so much more rewarding." The crazy old bat always had a sense of humor, and bit of a childish streak. It showed when she stuck her tongue out at the woman behind the counter. "You have a good day, CeCe. Will you come over for dinner tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Greta." Cella watches the old woman leave the shop, the bell trilling as she opens and closes the glass door. Once she'd gone, and out of ear shot, Cella lets out a deep sigh and slouches against the counter. She loved the woman to death, but she felt like she had to put on the facade for her. It wasn't that she was judgmental or a bigot, she wasn't in the slightest. She had even painted her roof rainbow when her daughter had come out to her and brought home a girlfriend (and now wife). It was that everyone in the town knew her parents, and knew her as a child. She felt as though she was constricted by how her family had raised her and brought her up. Most of the towns people knew she no longer followed her father's orders and commands. Everyone had known her as the small, soft spoken and obedient child.

Pulling her book out from under the counter, she settles onto a stool in front of the register. She was open for a few more hours, and she'd have a small rush at about two. Which gave her an hour and a half to relax. While no one never ever moved to the small town, they did get lots of tourism, mainly because they were the smallest town in the smallest state. Sort of like visiting the country's biggest ball of twine. The small bit of tourists they did get, though, greatly helped her business. She had themed soaps and lotions, and other bits and bobs that kept the visitors happy. Occasionally, she'd stock her shelves with t-shirts, but that was mainly during the summer and Spring Break. 

The bell above her door rang again, and she was also taken aback but the strong but pure smell of flowers. When she looks up, its only Greta again, which causes her intense confusion. 

"I forgot, dear!" The little woman exclaims. She approaches the counter and places down a blueberry whoopie pie on the glass. "Your favorite!" SHe gives her a wrinkled smile before digging in her back. It was a large carpet bag that was definitely older than Cella, and the same size as Greta's torso. "And this, I found. I think you mother left it at my house when she was just a young student!" Her voice is slightly muffled while she digs. What she pulls out is a rosary, though different from the basic ones that decorated her home in childhood. It was clearly old, and not near as polished as her father's had been while growing up. "I know how you feel of the church now, but I thought you might like to have it."

Cella hesitates to take it, but she does, wrapping it around her hand like in prayer. The smell of flowers grew stronger. "Thank you, Greta, really. This... This means a lot." The elder nods with a delicate smile. She turns to leave just as Cella turns to set the rosary down on her purse. As the beads leave her hand, she is struck with a pain she had never known before, radiating from her wrists. She doesn't quite realize whats happening as the blood drips down her skin, but she can do nothing but scream. 

It came in waves, like a nail being driven over and over into her wrists. She screams, cries out. The spike is driven in again, another hit of the hammer. She screams again. Blood drips onto the floor and she can hear it as if she has heightened hearing. Everything around her is dark, and blurry. She can't see or feel anything besides the spikes being driven through her wrists.

_If you fast, you will bring sin upon yourselves, and if you pray, you will be condemned, and if you give to charity, you will harm your spirits._

Whispers fill her head as she screams, and her body hits the cold tile floor of her shops. She's covered in her own blood, in tears and in broken glass. There's one last strike, and one more corresponding scream before she collapses in a heap, seeing nothing but dark and shadows above her. 

++

When she wakes, Greta is at her side. She's reading a book with a rosary wrapped around her first. Cella makes a groaning sound as she wakes and stretching, her arm getting caught on IV cords. 

"Celeste!" Cella flinches at the hated name. The old woman moves to her side quicker than she'd ever seen an 80-year-old woman move. "Oh thank his Grace."

"Greta, what..."

"You have been blessed, child. The Stigmata..." Greta presses her rosary to Cella's chest. "You have been chosen." She grabs her wrist, making Cella hiss loudly. "Accept his gift and you suffer through what our savior has suffered." Cella scoots away as far as possible while being in a hospital bed. "He has thrust this upon you and you must embrace it! EMBRACE IT!" Within seconds a nurse and a security guard appear and struggle to pull the woman away and she shouts and screams gospel at Cella. It terrified her. She'd known Greta from birth. She had been the one to babysit her throughout growing up. She taught her important life lessons her parents refused to teach her. Her sudden change in behavior was bewildering, and haunted Cella for the rest of the day. 

* * *

 

The holes in Cella's wrists hadn't even begun to heal in the 2 weeks she had been home from the hospital. The nurses had stitched both sides, and yet if she touched it, or rubbed it against something in any way, it bled. She hadn't needed a transfusion after the incident, despite the amount of blood she cleaned up back at her shop. The hospital had sent her home with pamphlets about mental health and self harm, both of which she had tossed in the trash. She hadn't done this, and in a rush of recovery, discharge, and cleaning the floor, she had forget to dwell on the fact that she had been  _crucified_.

And that is what led her to that moment. She sat on her bed, her wounds unwrapped and several blood drops soaking into the carpet. The holes in her wrist had been perfectly round, missing an artery by less than a centimeter. The doctors obviously assumed self harm, and nothing she said convinced them otherwise, so she let it be. She wasn't a stranger to what this was. She knew exactly what was happening to her and it terrified her. Her father had taught her everything about Catholic history, Stigmata included. Her father had told her it was something that happened to the most religious and perfect. Those who lived as Jesus did. She thought it was bullshit, but her wrists were solid proof it wasn't.

Why her? She hardly was as devout as her father. She hadn't been to church in 5 years, and the most she got to prayer was the rosary Greta had given her two weeks ago. Before that, she hadn't touched a religious artifact since she was 18. She took the Lord's name in vain at least three times before lunch each day. This wasn't write. If there was a God and Heaven was real, they made a mistake. If anyone "deserved" these, it was her father. If the church saw these as a gift, then he should have been the one to receive them. 

Standing, shaking her head. Her mind was so clouded and confused, knowing there wasn't a thing she could do. Go to Rome? To Vatican City? Not likely. There hadn't been a Stigmata case in years, and most of them were faked or self inflicted. They'd give her the same conclusion. She moves into the bathroom, turning the nobs with far more force than necessary to run the bath water. She hisses at the pain that shoots up her arm. A few drops of blood hit the carpet, and she sighs. After undressing for her bath, she stares at herself in the mirror, sighing at her appearance. Maybe she'd get lucky, and she'd only have to deal with bloody wrists for a few weeks. 

Cella pushes the thought out of her head, and slides into the warm bath water. It warms her skin, and she feels all the stress and tension dissolve. She sighs as she settles in, closing her eyes and she submerges her body. As she lays there, she tries desperately not to think, and to just be. But to no avail. Greta had told her to embrace it, as if she was supposed to accept her phantom crucifixion as a gift. How could she possibly-

She stops. 

"Flowers." Cella sits up in the bathtub, speaking only to herself. She had smelled the flowers in her store, when she had collapsed from her wrists. When she woke up from the hospital, she hadn't smelled it again. But she smelled it right then. It was so strong it was as if someone had shoved a flower right under her nose. Purity. That's what her father had told her. The Odor of Sanctity. 

Suddenly, her head is throbbing. And then the first slice. Its as if thorns were being dug into her skull in a crown like shape. A scream rips through her throat as the blood dripping down her face blinds her temporarily. She thrashes, the slashes continuing for what feels like hours. Instead of black, images flash behind her eyes. Images she can't quite place. They give her a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach, almost making her sick. The jabs of thorns dies suddenly, and her screams taper off. She furiously wipes at her eyes, using the water from her bath to cleanse her wounds. When she can finally open her eyes, the water she sits in is tinged a reddish-pink. She pulls the plug, letting the water drain until she's sitting in an empty, wet tub. She shivers as she climbs out, wrapping her body in her towel. As she passes the mirror, she stops. Her forehead is littered in thin cuts, still dripping blood. Cella touches one, flinching when it hurts and causes more blood to drip down her face. Thankful they weren't deep enough to warrant a trip to the hospital, she wets a cotton pad with alcohol and dabs at them to disinfect. Once satisfied, she takes light footsteps back into her room to dry off an get dressed.

As she curls into bed, she prays for the first time. She prays for this to stop. 

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted more in this chapter, but I was falling asleep and couldn't write anymore.

_Don't lie, and don't do what you hate, because all things are disclosed before heaven. After all, there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed, and there is nothing covered up that will remain undisclosed. This heaven will pass away, and the one above it will pass away. The dead are not alive, and the living will not die. During the days when you ate what is dead, you made it come alive. When you are in the light, what will you do? On the day when you were one, you became two. But when you become two, what will you do?_

_My disciples, they are like little children living in a field that is not theirs. When the owners of the field come, they will say, 'Give us back our field.' They take off their clothes in front of them in order to give it back to them, and they return their field to them. For this reason I say, if the owners of a house know that a thief is coming, they will be on guard before the thief arrives and will not let the thief break into their domain and steal their possessions. As for you, then, be on guard against the world. Prepare yourselves with great strength, so the robbers can't find a way to get to you, for the trouble you expect will come. Let there be among you a person who understands. When the crop ripened, he came quickly carrying a sickle and harvested it. Anyone here with two good ears had better listen! When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner like the outer and the outer like the inner, and the upper like the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male will not be male nor the female be female, when you make eyes in place of an eye, a hand in place of a hand, a foot in place of a foot, an image in place of an image, then you will enter the kingdom._

* * *

 

When Cella was a child, her father would read a gospel in the morning, at lunch, at the dinner table, and then before bed. One gospel from each holy man. Morning would be for Matthew, when her father would come gently into her room, and sit on the side of her bed. He would wake her up easily, calmly. He was not a harsh man in practice, more in his principles. When she has finally risen from sleep, he would pull his old and fragile family bible from his coat jacket and read her a gospel she had heard many a time. She listened with feigned interest, like her mother had told her to. When he was done, he allowed her to start her day, to shower and get dressed. Then she would come down for breakfast and they would hold hands and pray before a single bite of food hit their lips. 

_"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Forgive us for our sins, and bless you for the food you have blessed us with. May it fill our bodies like your grace has filled us, so that we may live and continue your Gospel."_

For lunch, her father read to her Mark's gospel. They sat in the parlor, in their chairs with their bibles, and he made her read. So she would read from where they had left off the previous day, and read until her mother called that lunch was ready. Both her and her father would rise, and he would pat her gently on the back. They would sit at the table and they would grasp hands, and they would pray. 

_"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Forgive us for our sins, and bless you for the food you have blessed us with. May it fill our bodies like your grace has filled us, so that we may live and continue your Gospel."_

It seemed as though her life was cycle of nothing but prayer. She would wake, pray, eat, study gospel, pray, eat, study gospel, pray, eat, pray, sleep. It was a mantra over and over in her head for years. She was too young to notice for quite some time, but once she was old enough to notice, she did. She went to public school, at her father's disapproval. He sent her with a bible and the reminder to read her gospels before lunch and then to pray. And then he would question her about her gospels when she returned home, to make sure she had followed through with his request. Her school mates played outside with each other, had sleep overs. She watched them from her bedroom window, as they rode their bikes down the rode, or dipped their toes into the harbor. She never understood why she was different, why she could never go out and play. When she learned she had been the first daughter in her father's family ever, she had become convinced she had finally found her answer. It was her first act of rebellion, if it could even be call such a thing. Her father had come to remind her of her gospels.

She had cried, demanded to know why he hated her, why she was never allowed to be a child. Cella had accused him of hating her because she wasn't a son, and that her didn't love her. She had made him cry then, and a deep wave of guilt had filled her chest. She was only 8, then, but it was the first time she had felt regret. He hugged her, brought her close to his chest. He had reassured her that he loved her so deeply, that he struggled to keep God a priority above her. (He then later went to confess his sins and apologize for every entertaining such an idea of loving his own child more than God.) Her father had said he did it for her safety, so that she may be sin free, and never have to confess sins. He wanted her to be a perfect, God loving and fearing woman. 

When she grew up more, at around 16, she was so convinced her father was full of it, she stopped gospels. It angered her father for 2 years until his death, and he died angry about it. She had been come fed up with being held to a higher standard than any of her class mates. The other children in the town all attended church, and were respectable children. But she could not be. She could not play outside, or go to the movies, or study at the library. Cella didn't go to prom, and she didn't go on her senior year field trip to Massachusetts. She did nothing but eat, sleep and pray. She grew to furiously resent her father, and she would for the rest of her life. 

++

 Her reflection in the mirror did nothing but stare back at her. Thin thorn tracks scatter across her forehead, as well as dried blood from other night. They were deep, and some even had begun to scab already. But it wasn't really the scratches that concerned her, it was her face. It was gaunt, and her cheeks were sunken in. She had deep bags under her eyes, and she just looked exhausted. She'd barely slept since the first day in her shop, and at this rate she'd continue to get no sleep at all. Her body ached all over, from her toes to her finger tips and everywhere in between. No matter how she cracked her neck or her back, she was still so sore and worn. 

Giving up on the ghastly version of herself in the mirror, she scuffs her feet into the kitchen to grab her coffee mug. She remembered the boxes in the attic, ones she hadn't gotten to in her purge of religions artifacts. Some she knew contained books, and she just hoped to what ever deity there way, that her father possessed a book that could help her. The walk to the attic was quiet, and she passed into a part of the house she hadn't been in since her parents died. There was a thick layer of dust collecting on the empty shelves, and on the door knobs that hadn't been opened since she was 18. It wasn't haunted, but the air was thick with memories, and it made her heart clench. She struggles to push off the heavy weight sitting on her chest, but she does, and finally opens the attic ladder above her head. She climbs it, mug still in hand, and emerges on the other side of the ceiling above. 

The attic was much like her parents' hallway, but worse. No one had been up here in years, and most everything remained untouched. It smell strongly of her father's soap, something he's used all his life, so there was no telling how old some of the boxes were. Without really knowing what she was looking for, Cella went on a search in boxes, looking for anything that could help. Most of the contents of the boxes were written on the outside, with only a few blank boxes. Most boxes had nothing of value, which hadn't surprised her. Her father's parents had raised him in the same way she had been raised; quiet, and sheltered. From across the dust and cobweb ridden room, she spots a box labelled "Books". Cella jumps up, almost excitedly, to the cardboard box. Its sealed with tap thats old and peeling off, and its covered in a thick layer of dust. She brushes it off, pausing to cough and clear her lungs, before sitting in front of it. She sneezes again when she pulls the tape off, and she has to pause to keep from sneezing again. Inside the box is packed with books, some looking absolutely ancient. While shuffling through the stack, she notices a small, pocketbook sized book. 

What catches her eye is the word  _Stigmata_ carved into the leather of the binding. When she opens it, its nothing but a name. A name she recognized. Saint Francis of Assisi. The first stigmatic every recorded. He was a holy man, who wasn't always holy. When younger he was a wild child, but after finding the grace of God, he became a whole new man, who worshiped God and became a Saint. 

_“Lord Jesus Christ, who reproduced in the flesh of the most blessed Francis, the sacred marks of your own sufferings, so that in a world grown cold our hearts might be filled with burning love of you, graciously enable us by his merits and prayers to bear the cross without faltering and to bring forth worthy fruits of penitence: You who are God, living and reigning with God the Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, for ever and ever. Amen.”_

Not only did the book contain information about the Stigmata, it had a diagram, depicting the wounds of Jesus Christ himself. Where each was, and why. His wrists, to hold up his body on the cross. Her own wrists stung at the thought. His feet, his back, his side, and from his crown of thorns. Two of which she possessed. Francis of Assisi, and only received three, perhaps she would follow in his footsteps. The book told of his experience, of his prayer on the top of Mt. Alverna. The marks on his hands had appeared much as her did, but then his feet, and his side, like a spear had been driven through him. And he bled, just as she had done. But she was experiencing them, as if she was being crucified herself. As if the nail was driving itself into her wrists. 

The smell of flowers overwhelmed her, and she stood up abruptly. She knew what was coming, what was to be next. She smelled the fragrance every time, before and after she gained a wound. Standing had been her mistake. She fell to her knees screaming as she felt a sharp, stabbing, ripping pain spread through her legs, from her toes up. It felt just as her wrists had, a railroad spike driving itself over and over into her feet until she couldn't take it anymore. She screams and cries, knowing no one would hear her, so instead she cried. And when it was over, she patched it herself. She wouldn't walk back into the hospital, knowing they were all looking at her like she was crazy, They already thought she had done her wrists to herself, she didn't need to add another to the list.

Cella needed help, desperately. 


End file.
